had not breathed a word about him; “yes, surely, he said
—- ”
“He said?” resumed Porthos.
“Stop, I want to remember his exact words. He said, `As to
your friend, tell him he may sleep in peace.'”
“Good, very good,” said Porthos; “that signified as clear as
daylight that he still intends to make me a baron.”
At this moment nine o’clock struck. D’Artagnan started.
“Ah, yes,” said Porthos, “there is nine o’clock. We have a
rendezvous, you remember, at the Place Royale.”
“Ah! stop! hold your peace, Porthos, don’t remind me of it;
’tis that which has made me so cross since yesterday. I
shall not go.”
“Why?” asked Porthos.
“Because it is a grievous thing for me to meet again those
two men who caused the failure of our enterprise.”
“And yet,” said Porthos, “neither of them had any advantage
over us. I still had a loaded pistol and you were in full
fight, sword in hand.”
“Yes,” said D’Artagnan; “but what if this rendezvous had
some hidden purpose?”
“Oh!” said Porthos, “you can’t think that, D’Artagnan!”
D’Artagnan did not believe Athos to be capable of a
deception, but he sought an excuse for not going to the
rendezvous.
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“We must go,” said the superb lord of Bracieux, “lest they
should say we were afraid. We who have faced fifty foes on
the high road can well meet two in the Place Royale.”
“Yes, yes, but they took part with the princes without
apprising us of it. Athos and Aramis have played a game with
me which alarms me. We discovered yesterday the truth; what
is the use of going to-day to learn something else?”
“You really have some distrust, then?” said Porthos.
“Of Aramis, yes, since he has become an abbe. You can’t
imagine, my dear fellow, the sort of man he is. He sees us
on the road which leads him to a bishopric, and perhaps will
not be sorry to get us out of his way.”
“Ah, as regards Aramis, that is another thing,” said
Porthos, “and it wouldn’t surprise me at all.”
“Perhaps Monsieur de Beaufort will try, in his turn, to lay
hands on us.”
“Nonsense! He had us in his power and he let us go. Besides
we can be on our guard; let us take arms, let Planchet post
himself behind us with his carbine.”
“Planchet is a Frondeur,” answered D’Artagnan.
“Devil take these civil wars! one can no more now reckon on
one’s friends than on one’s footmen,” said Porthos. “Ah! if
Mousqueton were here! there’s a fellow who will never desert
me!”
“So long as you are rich! Ah! my friend! ’tis not civil war
that disunites us. It is that we are each of us twenty years
older; it is that the honest emotions of youth have given
place to suggestions of interest, whispers of ambition,
counsels of selfishness. Yes, you are right; let us go,
Porthos, but let us go well armed; were we not to keep the
rendezvous, they would declare we were afraid. Halloo!
Planchet! here! saddle our horses, take your carbine.”
“Whom are we going to attack, sir?”
“No one; a mere matter of precaution,” answered the Gascon.
“You know, sir, that they wished to murder that good
councillor, Broussel, the father of the people?”
“Really, did they?” said D’Artagnan.
“Yes, but he has been avenged. He was carried home in the
arms of the people. His house has been full ever since. He
has received visits from the coadjutor, from Madame de
Longueville, and the Prince de Conti; Madame de Chevreuse
and Madame de Vendome have left their names at his door. And
now, whenever he wishes —- ”
“Well, whenever he wishes?”
Planchet began to sing:
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Dumas, Alexandre – Twenty Years After
“Un vent de fronde
S’est leve ce matin;
Je crois qu’il gronde
Contre le Mazarin.
Un vent de fronde
S’est leve ce matin.”
“It doesn’t surprise me,” said D’Artagnan, in a low tone to
Porthos, “that Mazarin would have been much better satisfied
had I crushed the life out of his councillor.”
“You understand, then, monsieur,” resumed Planchet, “that if